


The Diary of Ophelia

by WhiffleWaffles



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Diary/Journal, Exploring, Hamlet (mentioned), Ophelia (mentioned), Writing, english project, other characters (mentioned) - Freeform, practice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 14:51:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14956719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiffleWaffles/pseuds/WhiffleWaffles
Summary: Your career is hitting off with the exploration of a small kingdom untouched by mankind for years. Your team heads out to dig up the ruins, explore the history, and write the story of its inhabitants. While exploring a small house that is in ruins you find a stashed leather-bound journal that's words are as faint as a whisper and as delicate as a newborn baby. Eager to read the logs in the book, you unknowingly find yourself reading the journal of a young girl who had lived a life of tragedy.*This was an English project for my Senior Year of High School. I chose to write in the Point of View of one of Hamlet's characters. I love Ophelia and decided I would have more to work with. Warning: a Stupid attempt at humor and references because my teacher was my loving aunt.





	The Diary of Ophelia

**Author's Note:**

> *This was an English project for my Senior Year of High School. I chose to write in the Point of View of one of Hamlet's characters. I love Ophelia and decided I would have more to work with. Warning: a Stupid attempt at humor and references because my teacher was my loving aunt. 
> 
> Despite the cringe I had while rereading this, I'm keeping the original and crossposting it from FF.net

_You're exploring the abandoned ruins of a house near the castle discovered in Elsinore, Denmark. The house has remained intact throughout the centuries and although it's simple, it is rich with information valid to your career. The house is stark compared to most noblemen's homes but it's cozy. You walk up the stairs after passing the large main room where a table stood in silence, old platters and silverware untouched by mankind for over centuries but instead by nature as rust begins to encase the beautiful silver._

_One bedroom contains a small bed with a dresser, mirror, and closet. On the dresser, near the remains of the wax of a candle, is a leather-bound journal. Upon closer inspection, you take the book with delicate hands and lean against the stark walls._

_This is a journal belonging to someone known as Ophelia. But her name is so faint it's hard to find the rest of her title. The pages are full of beautiful handwriting, delicate and noteworthy. A noblewoman's hands wrote in this diary. The last page is stained with water, perhaps tears or just a leaky roof, but it does not matter. Opening to the beginning, you skip a few pages._

**Ophelia's Diary**

_March 10, 1433_

The coronation of Denmark's new king is no other than our former King Hamlet's brother Claudius. I mourn for King Hamlet but only because of Hamlet's distraught humor as of these past two months. It's expected, but timid whispers art in the air that Hamlet is no longer a sir if 't be true that gent wast to keepeth this pity. I sympathize with that gent. I has't hath lost a mother as he hath lost a father, unexpectedly.

If't be true mother wast hither I would wend for his advice. Instead, Laertes scolds me as doest Father. I am torn between the love of mine life, lief Hamlet, and the console of mine Father and brother who only wanteth the best for me. But doth those gents knoweth what is the best for me? Mother... Soft hair that glimmered in the sunrise, blue eyes. That ladies voice, wast a shimmer of desire, coequal at which hour being scolded for lacking valor behavior. A mistress knoweth a mistress more than sire. But who am I to sayeth? I am but a daughter of the Chamberlain. My thoughts doth not matter. But I still writeth.

Hamlet, he was my sweet Hamlet. That gent hadst hath left ere the party of the coronation could beginneth. The music opposed to the humor. I hath followed but hath lost sight of that gent. I shalt writeth that gent a letter. Next to me lies a newly hath taken poem from that gent, words touching my very heart and soul as if 't be true a Bible verse.

_April 12, 1433_

Laertes hath left once more to France. His words dug deep but I cannot accept his advice if 't be true that gent in returneth doesn't followeth his himself. It would be unfair, after all. His departure wast brief as his ship sailed ov'r the horizon and his silhouette faded from eyesight.

Father spoke to me once that gent wast from view and I, as a faithful mistress, must obey his orders. Coequal if 't be true t hurts me so. I wilt still receiveth the letters from mine Hamlet.

Father can be an ugly bitch, sometimes.

_April 14, 1433_

I hadst a feeling in mine gut this would befall. But I only listened to mine Father as one should. Hamlet, Prince Hamlet, cameth to me askew and nev'r uttered a word. His eyes bore into mine soul and I hath felt "naked and afraid." But as a valorous daughter, I reported to Father.

I nev'r has't seen wild feces-like eyes like his this morning. I am still startled, and I quiver at the image of what befell ere me; His ghastly skin, shivering hands, unkempt hair and sunken eyes. That gent is ill but I knoweth that gent wilt taketh guidance and heal once counsel hath laid eyes upon him. I wanteth to apologize but I fear the scornful sir whom is my own Father. I wilt continueth to evade that gent but if 't be true that gent is not faring better within a week I must wend to that gent in private and console that gent. That might help, if 't be true not medicine.

_April 15, 1433_

Father tooketh the letter from me! I hadst not been able to open and readeth the four days I hadst it in mine possession. I hath felt guilt. And at which hour I untied the red silk ribbon and the letter bounced ope I only wast able to readeth the beginning ere twas snatched with fusty hands unwillingly. I should has't burned it least mine Father showeth it to the Lady and King of Denmark. I wilt be'st flushed with shame.

_April 15, 1433_

Hamlet, a donkey's anus! Wretched and smelly like the decaying feces of one. I shouldn't has't wroteth those words but I am frustrated. I would rather writeth those thoughts then breaketh a valuable antique, as Father would sooner strangle me for the act of frustration.

It's his fault. That gent madeth I playeth this afternoon. I has't been belittled by the highest honour of Elsinore. I has't been reduced to a whore because I am a mistress and I am in love with that gent. Or wast in lust with that gent? Oh, how I wanteth to rip the pages of this diary in frustration. I has't hath lost the one whom I once loved. Who am to joke? I am in love with that gent. But he hath gone mad.

_April 20, 1433_

Thither wast to be'est a marvelous playeth at the theater but the King Claudius becameth short and interrupted the players. Not that this undone the playeth, but moreso Hamlet. His snarky voice wrapped around me as his headeth laid on mine lap, cuddling the fabric of a dress I once cherished. That gent hath kept sputtering nonsense, and his sexual desire wast tense and unwanted.

I doth not wanteth to see that gent again. This isn't the Hamlet I love. This is the Hamlet who whines like calf and dots around his richly decorated castle.

_May 4, 1433_

Father is dead…

* * *

_Scribbled letters and numbers are on the last page, touched with dry-wet drops of stained tears. There is no marked time period._

* * *

Father is gone, gone and dead and dead and gone! The love for mine father is stout, coequal if 't be true that gent wast a wench. His body hath been enshielf by the one who is mad and whines like a little wench who doesn't receiveth the dress the lady wanteth but can't receiveth! Father's Dead. Dead. Dead. DEAD. DEAD. Dead. Deaad. I dream of that gent with blood seeping from his lips, worms inching out of his eyeballs, and his skin a hue of blue and white.

Oh, mine carriage is hither. Off to the castle.

Thy graceful WHORE Ophelia, ohhh-feel-ya, is coming to see thee quite quaint lady of Denmark! I shalt pick most quaint flowers for thee as a death gift!

Sing with me, parchment!

Rosemary for the wretched Hamlet who once loved me so and wroteth the most philosophical poems that sang mine heart to a gentle catch but a wink. But that gent nev'r existed didst heeeee?

Fennel for thy incestuous relationship with the lady called Gertrude! Eke taketh this Columbines.

Rue for me and thee!

Thither art no Violets because all has't withered.

Insane those gents sayeth, but it's not true! I just wanteth to speaketh the truth. Farewell lief Hamlet who hath kicked the bucket a few months ago, far well Ophelia the whore of Elsinore, and farewell brother and sister bonded together.


End file.
